


Clintasha Advent Calendar 2017

by zombie_socks



Series: Clintasha Advent Calendars [2]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabbles, prompt collection, see notes for details, un-betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: Collection of drabbles for the Clintasha Advent Calendar event on Tumblr.





	1. December 1: Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some colors we hate, some we like. But we love only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,  
> Currently on Tumblr there is a Clintasha Advent Calendar event happening until December 25. So I've made it my goal to post a drabble every day.

Natasha hates pink. It’s not that it’s considered feminine or anything in that vein; it’s that it reminds her of ballet slippers, of blood-soaked toe shoes and frayed ribbons. She used to love dancing. It and pink are two more casualties of the Red Room.

Clint hates yellow. It reminds him of cigarette stained wallpaper in a creaky pop-up camper in an even creakier caravan. It calls to mind overly buttered popcorn, faded striped tents, and the sickening shade of iodine on skin. He was sure the hospital he’d been in after his brother had left him for dead meant the yellow walls to be comforting. To him they simply looked sickening.

Natasha likes green. Green reminds her of fields of grass, of running wild and free in the back pasture of an old Iowan acreage. She thinks of springtime and young leaves, of her favorite sour candy and the flecks of emerald in Clint’s eyes. Green means new, fresh, a rebirth.

Green comes out of the ashes.

Clint likes orange. Orange is energy and vibrancy. Orange reminds him of cozy fires around the circus troop at night, of citrus slices offered by Phil in Vienna, of second chances, of sunrises in Budapest curled up in fresh sheets with Natasha at his side.

If Green is rebirth, Orange is the spark needed for it to emerge.

 

Natasha loves purple.

Clint loves red.

They’ve never had to say why this is so.


	2. December 2: Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adapt and overcome

After.

After the explosion, after medical, after the crushing news, after the tears, after the acceptance, that is when it strikes him exactly what this new life means.

He’s deaf.

No more hearing Tasha sleepily say his name in the morning, no more white noise fan at night, no more church bell chimes in the distance, no more footsteps on gravel, no more rustling of fall leaves. Without his aids in, there’s nothing.

But it hit him hard when he realized what this meant for music. Sure, he could still listen to it, but earbuds were a thing of the past. No more plugging in and jogging to AC/DC, no more strength training with Radiohead, no more zoning out with Simon and Garfunkel, no more decompressing with the Beatles, no more psyching up before a mission with Queen.

“Here,” Nat says gently. He’s still to get used to how her voice sounds through the hearing aids. She hands him a pair of over ear headphones. “They’re the best on the market to wear with hearing aids,” she explains. “They can be EQed to be bass heavy for when you want to feel the beat. And they have an elastic strap you can attach for working out.”

He gives her a smile and tries them on. They’re comfortable; he gives them that. He plugs in his MP3 player – a gift from Coulson long ago – and hits play. The quality is great, every tone picked up by the sensitive devices SHIELD had given him. It isn’t the same as before, but with Tasha smiling at his offered grin, he decides it’s just as good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I hope this piece doesn't come off as being negative about Clint's hearing impairment. Because it's so close to his accident, I wanted to show part of his transition and how it affected him.)   
> Thanks for reading! :)


	3. December 3: Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because they have to work in their least favorite weather doesn't mean they can't complain about it.

Natasha knows that rain makes Clint grumpy. He’ll argue with her that it doesn’t but the look on his face when drops fall onto the pavement and begin to soak his collar says otherwise. He’ll cross his arms and ever so slightly pout his lip whenever he has to go out in the rain. He’ll lie in it for hours, eyes to a scope, carefully watching their mark, doing his job to the utmost standards, but he’ll bitch about it the whole time over their comms. 

But for every drop that falls that makes him grumble and groan, there is an equal snowflake that sours her temperament. 

She can stand extreme degrees of cold – you don’t grow up where and how she did without being able to achieve such a feat – but that doesn’t mean she likes it. Natasha hates being cold, hates the lack of visibility, hates the way it makes the world seem like it’s holding it’s breath, watching her and scrutinizing every detail. So much failure happened in snow. So she’ll bundle up and gripe and pick at every agent in an op until she’s back at base, curled up in bed with thick socks and a good book to read, tea steaming beside her. And on her other side, whenever he can manage it, is Clint, arms uncrossed and lips in a grin. 


	4. December 4: AU/Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some legends and fairytales are remembered. Others are lost.

History remembers the legend of Robin Hood.

         It does not remember his son.

Robin of Locksley had three children, the youngest a son named Clinton. An archer like his father, Clinton mastered the bow at a young age. And with the hard times that had plagued his father growing tougher with the passing of the Great Richard the Lionheart, it seemed the land required a Robin Hood once again.

         Clinton took up the mantel of his father, stole from the rich to feed the poor, and spread hope amongst the people of the kingdom.

         And then there was her: red hair and green eyes, a woman of foreign and unclear origins. A murderess wrapped in the flesh of a beauty.

         Where he picked the pocket of princes, she poisoned their meals. Where he stole from Sirs, she sliced their throats.

         On a moonlit night he cornered her in the shadow of the castle wall and demanded she cease her attacks, least she cut off the only source of funding these people had. She spat in his face and answered that by removing the greedy from power she was giving it back to the people.

         “You’re creating a vacancy from more vile men to fill,” he retorted.

         “And you’re keeping the population dependent on your heroics so they’ll worship you.”

         He pushed her roughly into the wall. “Leave this kingdom, assassin.”

         “Or you’ll what?”

         He glared at her and she found herself for the first time enraptured by the eyes of a man. His were blue and stormy like the ocean in a squall.

         “I’ll aim an arrow at your heart,” he answered. “And I’m not much in the business of missing.”

         She tilted her head at the threat, unconcerned by it. This man had the aim of his legend father, but his big heart was that of his mother.

         “And if I did stop? How would I eat?” she inquired, weaving her voice into something frail and bashful, a victim, an innocent.

         But those damn eyes saw through her instantly. “A clever woman like you would surely not go hungry for long.”

         “Perhaps I could join your crusade,” she mused, shifting against him where he held her to the stone fortress at her back. “You’re not the only one with cunning and marksmanship.”

         It was meant as a distraction, something to divert his attention while she reached for the knife hidden in the pocket of the stolen pair of men’s leather trousers she wore. But his eyes never left hers and she found her hand stayed still. For the offer she’d created somehow appealed to her. And by the look on his face, he found it favorable as well.

         “I suppose a small frame like yours could get into tight spaces,” he mentioned, taking a moment to look her over.

         “And strong arms such as yours could surely hold the string of a bow for hours on end.”

         “I’m sure many a man would believe lies told by your lips.”

         “And many a woman charmed by your grin.”

         He smiled gently at her, released his grip, and extended his hand. “I believe us to be in the business of robbing this kingdom blind, Miss…”

         “Romanova. Natalia Romanova. And I quite agree, Clinton of Locksley.”

         “I wasn’t born in Locksley, Miss Romanova. And my father’s legend is his own.”

         “Then what do they call you?”

         He looked at her with those sharp, raptor-like eyes. “I’m sure legend will name us both.”


	5. December 5: Gratitude and Admiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Award the little things and they will become major

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! non-descriptive mentions of attempted suicide/self harm

It starts off as a joke.

Natasha found a sheet of gold star stickers tucked away in a SHIELD supply closet. God only knows what they were doing there, probably some leftover of the 90s or a Bring Your Kid to SHIELD day. Whatever their origin, they’d made her laugh. Clint had sarcastically told her on more than one occasion, “Congrats. Gold star,” whenever she’d rightfully brag about beating his ass at sparring.

So it starts off as a joke.

“You done with your tray?” Clint asks after their lunch together in the SHIELD mess hall. Natasha nods and Clint takes it for her. When he returns, she slaps a small gold star to the front of his shirt. “Good job, Hawkeye.”

He stares at the tiny little metallic sticker a moment before looking back at her. “The hell?”

She just grins and sips at her bottle of water.

And so it goes. “Gold star!” for making a difficult shot in training. “Gold star!” for beating that asshat, Rumlow, in the mile run. “Gold star!” for a successful mission in Belize. (“Two gold stars,” for that _thing_ he did in bed.)

Maybe it’s stupid, but Clint loves it. It’s nice to have some validation, some manner of appreciation, even if it is mostly sardonic.

She’s about out of gold stars when Loki tries to take over Earth.

After the gods have left for another realm, Clint goes to his apartment and stays there. Words like “depression” and “survivor’s guilt” are tossed around by the leaders at SHIELD. Natasha can’t decide if Clint needs time, needs space, or if she should march in there and haul his ass back to work.

She receives the news that Clint has been hospitalized at three AM on a Tuesday, a month after The Battle of New York. Words like “suicidal” and “destructive tenancies” are tossed around by the doctors. She decides she can’t give him space anymore.

It’s rough, touch and go for a few weeks, but with regularly scheduled psychiatric sessions and a bit of medication, she starts to see some of her Clint Barton return. They’re at a dog park, throwing out suggestions for where to eat for dinner when Clint points out a rather acrobatic dog jumping for a Frisbee. “Look at ‘im, Nat. He’s such a good boy. Go, pupper!”

Nat laughs and rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. And that’s when she sees it; it’s the first one since before Loki.

She’s not sure what makes her think of it, but the folded up sheet of gold stars is still in her “I’m Natasha today” purse. The sheet’s crinkly and some of the stickers are stuck together. But she pulls one out and sticks it to Clint’s shirt, right above his heart, right above where Loki’s spear touched him.

He looks down at it. “What’s this for?”

“For smiling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the feels roller coaster, guys.   
> Thanks again for reading!


	6. December 6: Stuck Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some times the best way around is through

Stony silence stretched between them. A bandage on Clint’s bicep, a scowl on Natasha’s face. They marched together into the elevator at Stark Tower, not a word said between them. “Jarvis,” Natasha addressed sharply. “Please take us to med bay.”

“ _Right away, Agent Romanoff.”_ The elevator began to move.

“Cancel that, Jarvis,” Clint grunted out. “Take us to our room.” The lift slowed, the new request being processed.

“Medical, Jarvis.” Nat glared at Clint. “Now.” It rose.

“I’ll stand in the elevator all day before I step foot on med bay’s floor.” It slowed.

“Med Bay.”

“Bed.”

The elevator stopped, coming to a halt with a jerk. “ _Perhaps I should wait until you two decide.”_

“Jarvis,” Nat tried. But there was no response from the AI. Nat hit the button for medical but the elevator didn’t budge. Rolling her eyes she began feeling the panel for the little lip that indicated its service opening. Damn it if Tony didn’t hermetically seal the thing. And there was no way she was going to stay here with Clint, not while she was so furious with him.

“Would it kill you to admit I’m right?”

Natasha spun around to face him. “You’re not right,” she spat.

“The hell I ain’t. Cap ordered us to get the intel. We got the intel. So what if we got shot at.”

“Shot. Not just shot at, Clint. Shot. You have a bullet wound in you arm.”

“It’s a graze!”

“You can’t keep risking your life like that.”

“Oh, and you don’t flip out of moving cars or take on guys twice your size.”

“I know how to handle those things.”

“So now you’re saying I don’t know how to do my job?” he scoffed.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she replied, going back to look for a way around Jarvis’ lock down.

“Then what did you mean?” There was still venom in his tone but it was loosening. She looked at him and could see he was shutting down, turning in on himself, no doubt beginning to list all of his perceived inadequacies in his head.

It broke her heart. It always did.

“I mean that I can’t stand it when you get shot,” she mumbled, turning her attention back towards the panel to avoid the dejection in his eyes.

“You think it’s any easier for me when you take a bullet?” he offered quietly. “Serum or not, Nat, it scares me.”

She spun around. “How do you think I feel?” Reaching for his injured arm she added, “This isn’t just a graze to me, Clint. This is one more time I could’ve lost you.”

He pushed some of her hair away from her face and tilted up her head with a gentle hand. “But you didn’t. Lose me.”

“No. I didn’t lose you.” She leaned into his hand. “Because you’re so good at what you do.”

“I learned from the best, you know.” He inclined in a bit, giving her the option if she wanted to pull away; he always did that: let her have an escape if she wanted. But she didn’t want to escape him. Not now. Not ever.

She closed the space between them, kissing him deeply, slowly, reveling in its luxury. He was here and alive and injured but not gone.

She pulled away after a moment, smiling into the small space now between them. “I think there’s a med kit in my room. If you promise to let me properly bandage that, then we don’t have to go to medical.”

“Deal.”

They kissed again, sealing their decision.

“Okay, Jarvis. My room, please.”

“ _Right away Agent Romanoff._ ” As the elevator rose, the AI added a note to stop the lift during arguments more often.


	7. December 7: Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the parties in the world, theirs is the best.

**Pepper and Tony’s Wedding Reception** is breathtaking. Every detail is flawless and executed to a degree that damn near transcends human capabilities. Then again, Natasha’s never been one hundred percent sold that Pepper Potts is entirely human. The food is delicious, the lights magical, and the music – she can tell – is mostly Tony’s selection. But the party is delightful with top-notch booze and dancing. She shares a dance with Tony and tells him congratulations.

“When are you going to get hitched?” he asks, lifting his chin to indicate where Clint is dancing with Pepper.

Nat shrugs and gives him no more of a reply.

 

 **Steve’s Birthday** is an exercise in good-natured clichés. It’s not everyday you turn 100, Rogers, Natasha had pointed out. So they’d rented out the dance hall of the local Legion, hired a USO group to play big band and swing, and shoved 100 candles onto a huge cake decorated up like his shield. Steve loved the whole thing: the vintage décor, the 1947 bottle of scotch Tony brought, and teaching the team members the Charleston using Bucky as a partner. While helping clean up, Steve asked Clint, “You think Nat would like a birthday party?”

Clint looked at him a bit surprised.

“It’s just, she did so much work on mine, I’d like to return the favor, you know.”

Clint went back to gathering paper plates and cups. “To be honest with you, Nat’s not even sure when her birthday is. We picked a date for her SHIELD records, but as far as celebrating it…well, let’s just say we’re not sure how many candles to put on her cake and I don’t think she’d want to find out. Too many memories, too many forgotten ones too.”

Steve nodded in understanding. “Maybe I’ll just get her a spa day package or something.”

“The one off of Mintner St. has a gun range next door. It’s her favorite.”  

 

 **The Women of Science Banquet** is extra special this year since both Jane and Betty are being honored. Thor hasn’t stopped beaming since Jane told him. Bruce has been hiding in the Stark Tower lab, anxious about seeing Betty again since Harlem. (Nat was going to drag his ass to the banquet, Hulk be damned, but he’d wised up and RSVPed without her having to resort to such measures. Shame, really. Her plan involved a new arrow she knew Clint was dying to try.)

The banquet was exquisite with a four-course meal, speeches from accomplished women from around the world (the ambassadors from Wakanda had ridiculously impressive stuff; Nat could see Tony drooling from a table away), and awards. Jane received hers to literally thunderous applause, courtesy of Thor, and Betty made sure to include Bruce in her acknowledgments.

When the dinner was winding down, Nat saw Bruce trying to make his escape. Signaling Clint, she went to go find Betty while Clint kept Bruce occupied with questions about a theoretical gamma radiation arrow. Their efforts paid off as Nat walked Betty over to their table and smoothly exited while the old lovers were busy with each other.

“Nice job, Widow.”

“Back at ya, Hawk.”  

 

 **Wanda and Vision’s engagement party** is… weird. Perhaps unorthodox is a better word. She knew Vis had planned most of it since it was his idea and Wanda had been busy with a mission that had popped up two weeks prior to the date. The penthouse was decorated in black, white, and red with pops of green thrown in like an afterthought. The food was a strange fusion of Sokovian dishes and fancy Food Network-style hors d'oeuvres. The music was mostly techno but with an Eastern European flare, and the full service bar contained everything from flaming drinks to ones you have to somehow use a fork.

 **“** This thing is like if you Googled ‘how do I throw a party?’ but then only watched the linked YouTube video of an SNL Stefon sketch.”

Nat giggled into her third drink – something called a black and white Russian; it had licorice straws in it and was about the grossest thing she’d ever drank but yet couldn’t stop. She took another sip and leaned in closer to Clint so he could hear her better over the pulsating Electro-pop song that was on. “It’s like the real life version of a gothic hipster’s Pinterest board.”  

“If the Hunger Games fucked the early 2000s.”

“If the whole abstract of .com had an aesthetic.”

They laughed together, something sloppy and drunk and with abandon.

“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Vision commented as he came by, arm around Wanda’s waist.

Clint looked at him with alcohol soaked eyes. “Vis, I will literally go to every party you ever throw.”

“It’s not too...,” Wanda tried to find the right word. “Bold?”

Nat laughed. “Wanda, it’s the boldest thing I’ve ever been to and I love it! Screw caviar and champagne and chamber music. This is where it’s at.”

Clint downed his “Gum and Coke” – a concoction of bubblegum flavored rum and cola – before adding. “Congrats, you two. To many more bizarrely amazing parties!”

 

 **It’s well into morning** when Natasha wakes up and rolls over to find Clint still asleep. After their night last night, she’s not surprised he’s still tuckered out. He’s on his stomach, arm up over his head, face relaxed with much deserved sleep. The sunlight peeking in through the sheer curtains of their Barcelona hotel room softly highlights the curves and dips of the muscles on his back. She leans in and kisses them, gently worshiping the body of the man she loves. She pulls away after a moment to order room service for breakfast but Clint grunts, “Don’t stop.”

She kisses his shoulder, still reaching for the phone. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispers.

He inhales and turns to his side, flinging an arm around her waist and kissing up and down her neck while she orders breakfast. Once done, she slides down and meets her lips to his. He rolls them so that she’s under him and they make out until a knock at the door indicates that their meal has arrived.

Clint gets up, throwing on a robe and retrieves their breakfast, tipping the attendant. He takes the trays over to their bed and passes Nat hers before settling in beside her with his.

“I know ten is a pretty big number, but I’m glad we decided against a party,” Nat mentions between bites of pastry.

“Same,” Clint agrees. “Room service covers the catering, this sheet makes for the perfect dress code,” he looks at her, grin stretching from ear to ear, “and the only guest I’d ever want to invite is right here.”

She kisses him in agreement.

“Happy anniversary, Tasha.”

“Happy anniversary, Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late entry. I got called in to work. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading! :)


	8. December 8: FREE DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivals to Lovers

“I hate you,” she spat as he sat up, smug grin on his face. No one out played her and yet this stupid, American archer had her on the ground, an arrow pointed at her face.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered as he tried for the millionth time to get her to understand that she needed to communicate to him, talk to him on missions, and not go off on her own.

“You’re all right, Barton,” she stated evenly, patching up a bullet wound on his side that should’ve been on hers.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” he whispered, holding her hand as she faded off into a medicated sleep, her hip aching from where a ghost shot her in Odessa.

“I trust you,” she tells him, making sure he feels the weight of it.

“I love you too,” he answers.  


	9. December 9: Tropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop AU

Natasha found working at a coffee shop generally unrewarding. Customers were usually in a rush or rude or both. She enjoyed working with her friends Steve, Bucky, and Sam, but aside from them and getting to make traditional Russian pastry to sell, the job was pretty lackluster.

And then he showed up.

“Can I get a black coffee?” he asked. “And…” he pointed at the pastry case.

“Try the _pryanik_ ,” she suggested. “I made them this morning.” Maybe she leaned in a little, trying a flirtatious smile.

Maybe he smiled back. “Sounds good.”

“Name for the cup?”

“Clint. Barton.”

Maybe she added her number.

And maybe he called and asked her to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late to the party. I had to work all day. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! :)


	10. December 10: Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For every first there is a last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major character death

The first time he hugged her was after her first solo mission where SHIELD thought she’d been killed. The comms had been silent for three days before she made contact from a safe house in Belarus. She’d been compromised on the mission, recognized from an op during her KGB days. Clint had been terrified he’d lost her after just starting to get to know her from the ops they’d run together during her probationary period. So when she strolled off the quinjet, he didn’t give a shit who saw or what she’d say. He hugged her, held her tightly for a moment just so she’d know she meant something to him.

The first time she held his hand was for a mission in Hong Kong. They were undercover as a married couple, deep enough into their “marriage” that the heavy petting and making out on street corners was behind them. But affection made for great cover; no one was going to pay them much mind as a couple strolling along the boardwalk. She took his hand in hers and instantly regretted it. His hand was warm and roughened and made her think of a thousand things off topic of the mark they were trailing. She told herself the smile he flashed her and the squeeze he gave her hand were part of the cover.

The first time he kissed her was when they were on the run from a group of AIM scientists who’d blown their cover. They’d tried to lose the cadre of extremists in the busy square of a Tuscan villa, but no amount of ducking through tight alleys and double backing up cramped streets was working. Clint pulled her down a walkway, swiping a jacket from a street vendor, nicking a sun hat from a distracted tourist. He handed the hat to her pushed her up against the wall. With a whispered, “Play along,” he kissed her. Diversion tactic, sure. But holy hell it was so much more than that, a dream come true, really. Her lips were soft and full and tasted lightly of the pink lipgloss her cover identity always wore. She released a tiny moan and he had to pull back or risk taking things to a place he wasn’t sure she’d want to go with him. “See anyone?” she asked, a little breathy. He looked around, shook his head. “Seems to have done the trick.”

The first time they went on a “proper” date was when Phil tricked them. They knew it was a trick when Coulson mentioned he couldn’t make their team outing because of a Captain America Animated Cartoon (1956-1958) marathon he’d forgotten was on that night. The skipping the meeting part they could understand. But Phil forgetting it was on… The place was nice, up-scale, with white tablecloths and heavy silverware. Phil had told them to have a good time and that the meal was on him. The table was small enough that their knees kept knocking together and the waiter suggested a shared dessert. That was when Nat realized this was a date. A real and proper date. And the moment immediately proceeding that thought was full of panic at the idea that Phil not only knew about her feelings for her partner, but also that Clint might find out. The moment following that, however, completely overruled her panic as Clint smiled at her softly in candlelight and she realized she liked where she was.

The first time he said “I love you,” was when she was still unconscious from her surgery after Odessa. She looked pale and small, swimming in a hospital gown too large for her frame, wires plugged into her. The heart monitor refused to fade into white noise, forcing him to watch its familiar mountain range scroll along. Every beat pulled him further down into his restless thoughts about losing her. He prayed with every rise and fall of her chest, “Don’t die on me, Tasha. You can’t die on me. You hear me? You can’t leave me. I love you.” He wasn’t sure if he imagined the tightening of her hand on his at his last words.

...

She always knew this would be the case in the end. Clint was human. No serum, no x-gene, no supernatural powers, just him and his tremendous skill, determination, and heart. She’d always thought it’d be a bullet or an alien death ray, something with some magnitude to take him down.

Damn that tumor in his lung.

The other Avengers gave speeches, eulogies, and Tony had talked of a memorial. (He wasn’t looking so young these days either; of course, it _had_ been twenty-six years since she’d met him.) Dirt was shoveled onto a coffin. She hugged a red, white, and blue flag to her chest. “Good bye,” she murmured gently, “moya lyubov'.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) for the feels


	11. December 11: Avengers and SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family is not always a matter of birth but a matter of choice

When Clint first joined SHIELD he’d been alone and lonely for years. It was hard to trust the man in the neat suit or the one with the eye patch or the woman with greying hair and British accent. But slowly as the man in the suit helped him train and become something more than just a gun for hire, his name changed to Phil. As the man with the eye patch offered countless instances of guidance and second chances, his name turned to Fury. And as the woman with greying hair and British accent retired and told him he was one of her directorship’s greatest achievements, her name changed to Peggy.

Slowly they became his family.

When Natasha joined SHIELD she’d been played with and manipulated for years. It was difficult to trust the archer with too sharp eyes or the man in the suit or the one with the eye patch. But slowly as the archer saw through her and helped pull her out of the pieces she’d scrambled to get, his name changed to Clint. As the man in the suit began to give her more leeway in her missions and actively cheer her on and support her, his name turned to Coulson. And as the man with the eye patch offered her insight into the world of spy craft from his era to now and care for her as well as her skills, he became Director Fury and then Nick.

Slowly they became her family.

When Clint and Natasha joined the Avengers they’d been a part of their own little family for years. It was hard to understand the time bomb that was the selfish billionaire or the angry monster or the relic from the “good ‘ole days” or the literal god. But slowly as the selfish billionaire gave of himself and his fortune to protect and house and include them, his name became Tony. As the angry monster patched up their wounds and inoculated them against diseases (and himself), his name became Bruce. As the relic from the “good ‘old days” adapted and led them into battle with strength and self-sacrifice for the rest, his name became Steve. As the literal god defended and entertained them with magic and great heart, his name became Thor.

Slowly they became their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone for reading and commenting!! You are the best! :)


	12. December 12: Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survival is to stay alive  
> To feel is to live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Red Room conditioning/violence

They put another needle in her then ask her what she feels. Pain. Fear. Anger.

“Nothing,” she replies. Because that is what they want her to say, are conditioning her to say. She’ll kill a man in cold blood and they’ll ask her what she feels. “Nothing.” Murder the other girls in the program upon her trainers’ instructions. Nothing. Kill the bastards that trained her. Nothing.

It’s a lie. But she’s told the lie enough that it’s become truth. She believes the lie herself. She feels nothing.

But then there’s an archer following her and she kicks his ass in an alleyway in a village off the Georgian/Armenian border. But he gets in a lucky shot and next thing she knows she’s pinned to the ground awaiting her death. _You deserve this. You feel no fear. You feel nothing._

It’s a lie.

The archer sees this.

They put another doctor in front of her who asks her how she feels. Weak. Terrified. Angry.

“I don’t,” she replies. Her conditioning, it turns out, is difficult to fully break.

“It’s okay to feel things,” the archer, Clint by now, informs her. “Those feelings are what keep us living.”

“How can you say that? I’ve seen many a man with feelings for his wife and children and his own life, yet he crumbles under a bullet like the rest.”

“Maybe that’s because he feels like he can’t live without them. But that’s not what I’m saying, Nat.”

She frowns at the nickname. It makes him grin.

“You don’t like me calling you that.”

“I…” She doesn’t. It indicates familiarity. They are not familiar with each other. “No. I don’t like it.”

“Well, that’s a feeling.”

“And my dislike for some nickname keeps me alive how?”

“Living isn’t the same as staying alive.”

He walks away, his words lodged into her mind, swirling there to be constantly dissected.

“How are you feeling today, Natasha?” the shrink asks.

And she finds she can finally answer. “Confused.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We're halfway done with this event; can you believe it?!


	13. December 13: Hobbies/Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your interests may interest others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU...ish

“What are her hobbies?” Kate asked as Clint tried for the third time to get his tie tied correctly.

“Don’t know. That’s the point of a date, Kate.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one that asked if I could help you come up with topics of conversation. Your tie’s still crooked.” She batted his hands away. “Let me do it.”

Clint kept his chin tilted up while Kate fixed his tie. “I’m just nervous, I guess. When I asked her out I honestly didn’t think she’d say yes.”

“Why not, though. You’re quite the catch. Tie tying skills excluded. There.” She backed way and examined her work. “What about your hobbies?”

“What about them?”

“Would they work for conversation?”

“Not unless she’s into volunteering at a pet shelter or archery.”

“Oh c’mon, Clint. You have other hobbies…right?” She flopped down on his ridiculously comfortable couch – seriously, no curbside find should be this amazing. “What do you do when I’m not here?”

“You don’t want the answer to that question.” He put on his suit jacket.

Kate shook her head. “Getting off to fantasies of your hot new co-worker aside, what do you do on your days off?”

He grabbed his keys. “Volunteer at the pet shelter and doing and/or teaching archery.”

Kate rolled her eyes again as he turned the doorknob, ready to go. “Maybe her hobbies will be more interesting.”

…

“So uh… what are your, you know, hobbies?”

Natasha paused fork halfway to her mouth. “Can’t say I’ve ever really thought about that.” She put her fork down, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Well let’s see, I knit scarfs and mittens for a local charity, and on Saturdays I teach ballet at a studio near my apartment.” She hesitated for a moment. “Those are kind of… odd hobbies, aren’t they?”

Clint grinned. “Not as odd as you’d think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone!!!


	14. December 14: Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you least expect it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a drabble written up for this but didn’t like it very much. My coffee shop AU got a lot of love, though, so I decided to go with that theme. I hope you like it. -z-socks

Nat watched as the “hot blue-eyed regular” (Bucky’s phrase) checked his phone for the millionth time. He looked… frustrated. He kept running his hands through his hair, checking his phone, tapping his fingers. His stupidly gorgeous eyes kept running the length of the coffee shop windows, head snapping up every time the entryway bell rang.

“Who do you think he’s waiting for?” Bucky asked as he refilled the pastry case with some more _pryanik._

Nat shook her head. “Not sure. Date maybe?”

“Well then get your ass over to that seat, Nat.”

Nat glared at him. “I’m not going to just plop down in front of him, say ‘hi, you’re hot, I’m your date now,’ and expect him to just roll with it.”

“Not with that attitude you’re not,” he quipped, tucking the now empty tray under his prosthetic arm.

Nat sighed. “Not all of us meet our soul mate by being brash, Mr. My Favorite Piece of Art in Your Exhibit is You.”

“Aww, shucks,” Steve chimed in, bussing tray full for the breakfast rush’s refuse. “You talking about me again.”

“Tell Nat to go introduce herself to Hot Blue-eyed Regular.”

“Tell Bucky to stop being a jackass.”

“I’m with the jackass on this one, Nat,” Steve admitted. “You’ve been mooning over him for months. We’re a coffee shop. Go take a break and have a coffee date with him.”

Nat turned away from the counter, keeping them in sight as they tucked their trays in their respective spots. “You’re both being ridiculous. I’m not going to waltz over there and say, ‘Hi, my name’s Natasha. I’ve got ten minutes and think you’re extremely attractive. Would you like to go on a date with me?’”

“Sure.”

The three whipped their heads around to see Hot Blue-eyed Regular standing there, china mug poised for a refill.

“I mean, my ex just called and said her flight was cancelled, and I’ve only got a few minutes before I gotta go to work. But sure.” He followed it up with a smile and Nat felt her breath catch.

She looked back at Bucky, mouth open in an unasked question, hesitance making its way out in an, “Uhh?”

Bucky, for his part, shoved his hand forward in time to half kicking his leg, mouthing, “get your ass over there.”

Steve gracefully took Hot Blue-eyed Regular’s mug and refilled it while gently reminding Nat to take off her apron. She flowed Steve’s directions and took both Regular’s mug and the new one for herself that Steve handed her. “Good luck,” he whispered as she moved from behind the counter towards the table Regular had been occupying.

“I’m Clint, by the way,” he started.

“Natasha,” she answered.

He pointed to her nametag. “I know.”

She sipped her coffee, trying not to feel awkward, but Jesus, this man was hot – all dirty-blond hair and blue-green eyes and muscular arms – and had a deep, rough voice, and the world’s best smile. “Ex?” she stumbled out.

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Ex-wife. Couple years out now, but paperwork’s never really done, right?” He took a drink of his own coffee. “She lives in England with her fiancé, was on a business trip.” He ran his thumb over the loop of his mug handle. “We’re not… she’s not… it…it’s over.”

Nat smiled. “I wasn’t worried, but okay.”

“Yeah.” He sipped more coffee.

“Clint’s a nice name,” she commented. “It’s nice to be able to call you something other than Hot Blue-eyed Regular.”

He barked a laugh, something throaty and real, something warm and comforting, just like his smile. “Well that makes me feel better about calling you Red-haired Barista Goddess to my friends.”

She grinned. “Quite the title to live up to.”

“Well if it helps, I didn’t live up to mine.”

She tilted her head in question.

“Driver’s license says my eyes are green.”

“They’re blue-green.” She leaned in, getting a better look at them. “And gray, And brown. My God, how do you have so many colors in your eyes.”

He moved a bit forward, eyes on hers. “How do you have actual emeralds for yours?” He bowed his head. “Shit, that was cheesy. Sorry.”

“No. It was kind of sweet.” She waited until he looked at her. “Maybe a little dorky.”

He laughed again. “Well cut me some slack; I haven’t exactly been tearing up the dating scene lately.”

“Hard to believe with eloquent poetry at the ready like that.”

“Make fun if you want. But I’m an excellent poet.”

She raised a brow.

“I’ve read the whole of the works of Dr. Seuss.”

She grinned, sipping some coffee and feeling like this moment could last forever.

But it didn’t. Clint’s phone sounded an alarm, signaling he needed to leave for his job. And she really should get back to hers. The lunch crowd was due soon.

“I’d love to continue this, Natasha.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m off at six. Dinner?”

“Absolutely. I’ll meet you here at six o’ one?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He gave her a wide smile before gathering up his coat and gloves and making for the door. He turned back and waved, disappearing with the sound of the entryway bell.  

“So…” Bucky began, “are we invited to the wedding?”

“Slow down, Yenta.” But she smiled brightly as she added, “We’ll see how our next date goes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!


	15. December 15: FREE DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul Mate AU

It’s the worst thing that she could ever imagine. Worse than anything the Red Room dreamed up, worse than the terrors of her work with the KGB, worse than the horrors her freelancing forced her to face.

It started as a tingle then grew into a mighty and painful burn. She stifled her cries into the cheap cotton of a motel pillow as the burn tore through her. It spread like wild fire from the spot over her heart as the three words carved themselves into her skin.

 _This was never supposed to happen_ , she thought, gritting her teeth. The Red Room assured me this was never supposed to be an issue. Of course that was before she escaped and quit taking their serums.

Around two in the morning the pain subsided. She quickly turned on the lamp by her bed, flung off the cut-rate covers, and pulled her shirt quickly over her head to see what cruel trick the universe had begun to plague her with.

Three words sat there above her heart as they should, as they would with any normal person. _Bold. Merciful. Archer._

…

Clint Barton was no stranger to being yelled at. Fury’s hollering had ceased to faze him about twenty minutes ago. Yes, what he’d done was stupid and reckless and frankly was maddening to no end. But he stood by his decision. He changed his play in the field, made a different call. The Black Widow was deadly, sure. But she was also tired, exhausted from a life she couldn’t keep living. So he brought her in with the intention of making her an asset.

Fury could see Barton’s eyes had glossed over and dismissed him with a gruff, “We’ll talk more about the Widow’s presence in the morning.”

Clint left Fury’s office with the intention of checking in with his newly acquired asset and then hitting the showers and bed. However, Bobbi Morse, met up with him in the hallway baring a look on her face that Clint really didn’t want to get into.

“Just say it. Whatever it is.”

Bobbi considered his dog-tired tone but pushed on. “I’m curious,” she began. “Is all this because of your soul mark?”

Clint looked at her with narrowed brows. Bobbi knew what his said; she’d read it aloud many nights when she rested her head upon it, kissing each word and running a ringed hand over the letters. _Fierce. Intelligent. Redemption._ She’d never felt like that last one fit and after meeting Lance Hunter she knew why. His had read _Intelligent. Independent. Strong-willed._ She never regretted her marriage to Barton. Her mark had applied to both him and Hunter: _Rogue. Loving. Stubborn._

“This has nothing to do with that,” Clint spat. “I don’t even know if she has one.”

Bobbi shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever you say.” She split off and went the other way down the hall but couldn’t quite shake the idea. _Fierce. Intelligent._ And here Clint was giving her a second chance, a chance at _Redemption._   

…

Natasha knew right away that the man standing before her was her soul mate. Bold enough to come after her from above and actually catch her by surprise. Merciful enough to offer her a way out. And Archer. Who in their right mind used a bow these days?

(She’d hung around several archery competitions after getting her mark, curiosity getting the better of her, although she’d never admit it.)

“Fury’s gonna have my ass for pulling this little stunt,” he told her, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tired.

“So why do it?” she asked.

He frowned, thumb going subconsciously to his chest, rubbing at the fabric of his soft T-shirt over his heart. “Call it a hunch.”

She waited for him to elaborate, maybe tell her the words he touched at now. Instead he sighed deeply and told her he’d see her in the morning before turning around and leaving her alone.

…

Clint ignored the words on his chest for a long time. Even after Natasha passed the required tests to be an active field agent and partnered up with him. Even after month after month of successful missions. Even after he found himself growing closer and closer with every shared smile, joke, moment of panic when they got separated. He ignored the pinning he felt when he looked at her. Ignored the speed of his heartbeat, the way she could make him go weak-kneed and tongue-tied.

And then Natasha got hurt.

Her SHIELD Medical issued hospital gown made her look even paler than she already was. And with the cords leading to the various machines pulling on the neckline, Clint could make out the first word. _Bold._

Well he’d certainly been called that in his life.

When Natasha woke up and realized he’d seen the first word, she pulled the neckline further down and let him read the rest.

_Merciful._

_Archer._

…

It was familiar in a way, yet very different as Natasha laid her head on his chest, stroking at the words above his heart. It felt better this time around, more correct than it had with Bobbi or any other lover he’d felt had a list to describe him.  

Natasha still felt a little jumpy, panicky at the idea of supposedly sharing the rest of her life with someone. But that someone was Clint and she knew their soul marks described each other perfectly.

Together they were what the other needed. Fierce when the going got tough; Bold when caution was not an option; Intelligent when the operation needed brains to match brawn; Merciful when forgiveness was needed and an Archer’s patience and aim to make every shot.

But most importantly, in each other they found their redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone. I promise I'll get to replying to your wonderful comments very soon. :) Thank you for reading!


	16. December 16: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of what we don't remember are still memories

The music comes on. Instantly she knows it’s Tchaikovsky, Symphony No. 2 in C Minor. “Little Russian.” The finale. She taps her fingers to the opening fanfare. Her feet move of their own accord with the following strings.

She’s dancing.

Moves from a much darker time in her life spin through her mind and into her body, limbs obeying every turn, lift, drop. It’s a fast dance with lots of twirling. She pirouettes repeatedly, toes of her left foot touching her right knee, head sharply snapping as she spots each turn.

She’s less than halfway through the song when she hears a whistle behind her.

“Damn, Romanoff. Where’d you learn that?”

She falters, tripping a bit as she comes out of the turn to face Barton. “The Red Room.” She pauses. “I think.”

“You think?”

She’s not sure how to explain that there are some things she just _knows._ She doesn’t remember learning how to dance. She remembers performances, crowds of well-dressed people applauding her. She remembers backstage, bustling with rushed dancers and set pieces and stage crews. She can smell chalk dust and sweat. Hear the whispering of tulle skirts against tights. She can feel bruises where her instructor snapped at her leg with a cane to get her to straighten it.

Or maybe that bruise is from where one of the other girls in training kicked her. Maybe the chalk dust and sweat are from the classroom and training hall at the Red Room. She’ll never be sure.

So Clint’s question hangs there.

“I don’t always remember what happened there,” she confesses in a rush. “The programming…”

He nods. He stays uncharacteristically quiet after that, concerning Natasha. She should’ve known an admission like – hey the Red Room loaded my brain with a bunch of secret skills that I don’t always remember I have – would’ve been met with silence. He was no doubt planning ways to report this to Fury.

“I don’t remember learning how to aim,” he says instead. He follows it with a shrug. “Even before I held a bow, with like rocks and stuff, I was always a good shot.” Looking up at her, he offers her a small grin. “Crazy, ain’t it? These things, these skills, that are second nature to us, and we don’t remember where they came from.”

She looks at him curiously. Once more he’s managed to surprise her. It’s a revelation that damn near scares her. Clint Barton is…

“Can you show me how to do that?” he asks, pointing at her legs. “That spinning thing.”

She finds herself nodding.

And maybe, just maybe, she’s a little impressed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and commenting!!


	17. December 17: Injuries/Hurt/Comfort/Heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all joy there is sadness. In all sadness there is joy.

His left arm hurts in the excruciating way only a broken bone can. The sickening smell of burnt flesh says the explosion managed to singe his leg. His hearing aids must’ve gone out with the blast because everything sounds like he’s underwater. He blinks a few times to settle his vision but has little success.

Suddenly she’s there. Red hair and soot-smudged hands gently checking him over. Natasha pulls him off the ground into a sitting position, brushes hair and dust and rubble out of his eyes. She asks him a question and he can read her lips just enough to answer. “I’m okay.”

She glares at him.

 _Broken arm_ , he signs in admission. _Burn on leg_.

She goes to examine his wounds, signing to him how bad they really are. She spots blood in his hair and finds a head wound he hadn’t mentioned. Her heart starts to pick up at what this could mean damage-wise. Concussion, balance loss, more disruption in his hearing… Her hands shake as she signs, _You hit your head and it’s bleeding._

 _And here Phil was just complaining about my thick skull. Proves him wrong, huh?_ Clint grins wryly on the end and suddenly Natasha is overwhelmed.

She could’ve lost him. This idiot with his dumb jokes and gallows humor. This man with his good heart and iron will. This ridiculous human being who wormed his way into her ice-covered heart and warmed it so it could beat again. And she almost lost him.

She wipes away the tear that threatened to fall, leaving soot streaked across her cheek.

“Tasha,” Clint calls gently.

She holds him close to her, breathes him in, whispers how much he means to her. It’s not until he mumbles something a bit inarticulate that she remembers he can’t hear her and pulls back so he can read her lips.

“I love you,” she confesses.

His eyes widen. But he follows it with a gentle smile and signs _I love you too._

She chokes out a laugh, grinning, and doesn’t stop the tears that come then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the inspiration for this came from a writing prompt on Tumblr I read ages ago. Or something...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and commenting! :)


	18. December 18: Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call. A response.

She hears the melody of her name on his lips.                                                 He hears to her murmured reply.

She smells the rich scent of wood smoke and cedar.                                       He smells sharp gunpowder and soft rose.

She sees a stormy blue ocean, flecked with green and gold.                            He sees a dense green forest, sunlight flickering off of leaves.

She tastes coffee and blood from a split lip still healing.                                 He tastes chocolate and the remnants of vodka from last night’s nightmares.

She touches him.                                                                                            He touches her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! I'm so glad to see that so many of you have been enjoying these little prompts. :)


	19. December 19: Missions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh the places you go...

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Kiss your dog tags before a mission.”

Barton grinned sheepishly. “It’s a good luck ritual.”

Natasha looked perplexed.

“Didn’t you have those in Russia?”

She ignored the question and replied, “I didn’t peg you as the superstitious type.”

“Usually I’m not. But a peck to the old army tags _is_ good luck. Remember Borneo? How fucked up that whole mission was? Well, I forgot to kiss these babies for good luck.”

“That mission went poorly because our intel was bad.”

“Yeah. Our intel was bad because I forgot to do my ritual.”

Nat rolled her eyes. When Fury had cleared her for active duty a little less than a year ago, she’d been thrilled at the idea of getting a second chance. That excitement lasted considerably less amount of time once she found out her status was probationary and Clint Barton was her partner until further notice.

The work was good. She liked the missions she’d been sent on. And to be honest, she really didn’t mind working with Barton. That is until his little idiosyncrasies popped up.

“So what? You blame Tokyo on your little ritual?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tokyo happened because Fury stuck us with newbie agents on a mission that required more skill.”

“Then by your logic, your good luck charm doesn’t seem very lucky.”

“Well it got us through Cairo, Lebanon, Istanbul, Nairobi, and Turkmenistan.”

“But what about the disaster that was Nigeria? Or Athens? What about Tanzania?”

“Nigeria was fucked to begin with. I told Fury you weren’t ready to face a situation so similar to the one you left.”

She scoffed. “That bothered you more than me.”

He changed the subject. “Athens was good luck charm related, though. So was Tanzania.”

“So what? Am I going to have to remind you to kiss your dog tags every time we land?”

“Well I could kiss something else.” The suggestive edge to his voice had her scowling at him.

“Try your ass goodbye. There’s no such thing as luck. And any fool who believes in it is going to get killed.”

“I did my little ritual before I went after you.”

It shouldn’t have made her clam up but it did. She didn’t believe in luck; no way would she believe in something so trivial. But it was odd that he’d spare her, that he’d even think to look for whatever it was he found that made him make a different call. She was grateful for it. But that didn’t mean she was going to buy into this good luck ritual nonsense.

“Just keep you eyes peeled and your head in the game. We’ll see if Budapest ends up on your good luck list.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> (There's a hidden little pattern to the missions Clint and Nat list out. Bonus points to anyone who can find it...)


	20. December 20: Pets and Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furry friends are friends nonetheless

“I didn’t know Sam had a bird,” Natasha mentioned as they climbed the stairs to their friend’s New York apartment.

“I didn’t either until he asked to me to pet sit,” Clint replied. He dug out the key to Sam’s place and bounced it in his hand. “But the guy’s got government robo-wings. Should’ve at least guessed, right?” He opened the door and was immediately greeted by the screeching of an unhappy parakeet.

“Whoa,” Nat commented. “There’s finally a sound more annoying than Tony.”

“He’s probably just hungry. Sam said the food’s in the kitchen.” Clint went and found the bag of bird food, measuring some out per Sam’s written instructions on the bag. He came back over to the cage with the food cup in hand and frowned. “Sam didn’t mention how to get it in there.”

“Probably just reach in from the door.”

Clint shrugged and went for the latch of the birdcage. No sooner had he flicked open the fastener than the bird was out and fluttering around the room, screaming.

“Shit!” Clint exclaimed. “Any idea how to get him back in?”

“Try to lure him with food. I’ll call Sam.” Natasha pulled out her phone and dialed the familiar number. “Hi, Sam. Um your bird got out and he’s…” she looked around. The bird was gone. “Hiding.” She met eyes with Clint and signed, _We’re never pet sitting again._

…

Steve and Bucky were going on a much-deserved vacation across Europe. But that meant someone had to watch Patriot, their golden retriever/ yellow lab mix of a mutt with a missing leg. (Bucky found him in an alley looking scrawny and beat up. There was no going back.)

Despite the fiasco that was bird sitting for Sam, they pair had asked Nat and Clint if they’d take care of Patriot while they were gone. Clint, having always loved dogs, immediately said yes.

Of course when he showed back up at Steve and Bucky’s apartment covered head to toe in mud with an equally muddy Patriot on a frayed leash, Nat suddenly doubted their ability to watch any animal.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Patriot saw a squirrel. The rain had made the ground slick so when he suddenly took off, I slipped and let go of the leash.”

The dog looked up and panted happily.

“Long story short, he ran most of the park with me chasing after him and only stopped when the leash caught on some fencing. Between him struggling and me trying to get it loose, I think we owe Steve and Bucky a new one.”

Nat frowned but opened the door all the way. “I’ll run some water for a bath.” She tossed back over her shoulder, “For both of you.”

…

“T’Challa, when you asked if I could watch your cat for an hour or two, I thought you meant domestic, here kitty kitty, not… jungle cat.”

“Fear not, Barton. Robi won’t bite.” T’Challa turned to leave but added, “Although you may have to mind her claws.”

…

“No more pet sitting,” Natasha proclaimed as she flopped down on her and Clint’s shared couch. “You’d think Maria’s gerbil would be better behaved, but that little guy is a menace.”

Clint chuckled and sat down beside her, taking her feet into his lap and rubbing them. “Agreed.” He rubbed some more, watching her cat tease his dog. “Besides, Lucky and Liho are more than enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) 
> 
> And congrats to those yesterday who got the little puzzle!


	21. December 21: Being "Normal"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normal is what you normalize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted at least one prompt to be dialogue only...

“Uhh, don’t stop. Just like that, Clint right there.”

“You do realize this is just a foot rub, Nat. No need to by filthy.”

“Less talk, more rubbing. God your hands feel good.”

“Bet they’d feel good other places too.”

“You trying to start something, hotshot?”

“I mean, I’m game if you are.”

“And what, exactly, do you have in mind?”

“Well I’d start us off with some dinner. I’m a gentleman like that.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“I’m thinking take out from that place down the street. They have anything you could ever want to eat.”

“And then what? A little to the left, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well then we’d drink some good vodka, just enough to take the edge off, relax.”

“Sounds like that’s more of an issue for you than me.”

“So what if it is? We don’t get to do this very often. Usually there’s some element of mortal danger either ahead or behind us.”

“Scared the lackadaisical atmosphere will affect your performance?”

“Only in good ways.”

 

“You got quiet on me, Clint.”

“Guess I was just thinking how rare this is. Just you and me, hanging out, getting to act… normal.”

“We’re never normal.”

“No. But sometimes it’s nice to pretend, right?”

“If it means foot rubs and take out and good vodka, I’ll take pretending to be normal any day. Especially if it comes with you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Now, get on the phone and order us dinner. I’ve got something in mind for an appetizer that I _know_ isn’t on their menu.”

“God, I love you.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I promise I'll get to replying to your comments soon! It's been a crazy week.


	22. December 22: Secrets and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some secrets you tell. Some tell themselves.

The elegant ball might have been in full swing around her, but Natasha Romanov felt tremendously out of place.

            She’d always known she was royalty, had grown up in the palace with her older sister Yelena, mother, and father. But viewing them as king and queen and fellow princess never really concerned her. And when it was decided Yelena would take the throne, she’d been sent off to America to attend school away from the prying eyes of the press.

            A business associate of her father’s, Nick Fury, took her in and after much convincing, she was allowed to attend the local public school instead of the stuffy boarding private institute she’d been scheduled for originally.

            She made friends, real ones, ones who had no idea that half a world away was a palace and a throne she was supposed to be in proximity of. But with Yelena as the heir, Natasha never worried about monarchy and all that came with it. She ate school lunches, took ballet lessons, did homework in her best friend, Clint Barton’s, tree house.

            And then Yelena renounced the throne.

            She ran off with some man from some far away country, turned her back on the family and the line to the throne. With a single note she disappeared.

            Natasha was suddenly next in line. And while her friends were talking about college, she kept quiet and booked a flight to go live with a family she hadn’t seen in years. To study up for her royal duties. To learn a lifetime’s worth of knowledge about being a princess over the course of a single summer.

            Which led her to this moment. It was September and she was to be crowned

tomorrow. Her parents had thrown her a fabulous ball, full to the brim of delegates and politicians, aristocrats and brownnosers. She kept her eyes peeled, scanning the crowd constantly for the one face she was looking for. But instead of Fury’s eye patch, she spotted achingly familiar blue eyes.

            “Clint?” she called out in disbelief. He was dressed in a formal tux, bowtie askew and hair a little messy, and God, she loved him for it. She took a step towards him but stopped suddenly.

            He wasn’t supposed to know.

            She’d told him she was going to school abroad, had sent fabricated letters, and even Skyped once or twice when she was able to sneak into the coffee shop down the street for a less ostentatious background setting. Yet here he was, sharply dressed and coming towards her with a grin plastered on his face.

            “Hi ya,” he greeted.

            “What are you doing here?” Natasha asked, voice rough with panic.

            “Crashing your fancy royal party,” he answered. “Nice digs you got here,” he commented, looking around at the golden columns that held up the fresco ceiling, chandelier glittering in the center.

            “Who told you…I mean… I wanted to tell you… that is-”

            He cut her off with a single finger gently placed over her lips. “Fury told me everything.”

            “You’re not mad?”

            He bobbed a shoulder. “A little hurt, maybe. I’d have loved to hear it from you. But I get it. You wanted to have a normal life. And when that wasn’t an option anymore, you didn’t know how to cross spheres so to say. So you picked one and went with it. Right?”

            “Something like that.” She took his hands in her gloved ones. “I’m sorry, Clint. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you everything. About being royalty, about taking the throne, about-”

            “Apology accepted, Nat. Although if you’re looking to make it up to me, I’d love a dance.”

            Natasha smiled and led him to the dance floor. He wasn’t all that good so they ended up lightly swaying while in each other’s arms. He was so warm, smelled so nice and familiar. And maybe it was the music, the golden lighting, the closeness, or just the relief, but she leaned up and kissed him.

            Across the floor, Nick Fury let slip a grin as he spotted the pair. He’d had a sneaky suspicion there was more going on between them than just friends. He knew Clint, could vouch for his character. So when he told him about Natasha’s heritage, it didn’t surprise him that Clint insisted on being there for her.

            And who knows. Perhaps he’d just caught a glimpse of a future king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I accidentally skipped a prompt and had to go digging through my emergency back-up works. It fits... kinda. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Sorry for yet another AU.


	23. December 23: FREE DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends in low places...

It’s not often that they get a night off like this. But they’d just gotten back from Siberia last night and Fury had told them they were shipping out to Finland in the morning. So instead of being responsible, the pair had decided to blow off some steam.

They’d spent the day wandering around Manhattan, holding hands as they strolled through Midtown, went to the zoo, ate lunch in Times Square, and just generally acted like tourists. Clint suggested capping off the night with a drink, which was how they found themselves in a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar called Josie’s in Hell’s Kitchen.

They ordered two bottles of beer and settled in for a relaxing night. That is until Clint caught sight of the pool table.

Clint, while always vigilant about his alcohol intake as a result of his upbringing in an abusive drunk’s home, liked bars for one thing: liquored up competition at darts and pool. Because when you’re the best shot in the world, and your opponents are sloppy drunk, the money to be made is glorious.

“Go on,” Nat encouraged. “See if you can’t win enough for the Glock you owe me from Bulgaria.”

“I was only borrowing yours because you left _my_ gun in France.”

She waved it off. “It had too much evidence on it. And a twitchy trigger.”

“Mmmhmm.” He downed the rest of his beer. “Let me go see what I can do. I might get enough to replace both.”

“I get to play you next, hotshot.” She kissed his cheek and watched him approach a game already in progress. He chatted with the guys there, played at being considerably less sober than he was to lull them in. It really was entertaining. And it didn’t take long for the guys to let him in on the next round.

As expected, Clint cleaned house. He also caught the attention of the group playing at the second table.

“You’re amazing!” a shorter man with long blonde hair exclaimed. “Some of those shots were,” he shook his head, beer-muggy brain looking for the word, “amazing!”

The woman next to him laughed and let her head drop onto the man’s shoulder, taking her time to recover. “You said that already, Foggy.”

“Okay. But it’s true. He’s like… the superhero of pool.”

Clint chuckled and signaled the barkeep for another beer. “Well, I don’t know about that, but thanks.”

The third group member, a good-looking man with sunglasses and a cane, downed the rest of his own beer bottle. “You wouldn’t want to play, would you?”

Clint looked the man up and down. The guy was obviously visually impaired, but Clint didn’t let that fool him. He’d kept an eye on their pool table between turns at the one he’d been playing and was impressed with the guy’s skills. “Sure. But I owe my woman a game. Mind if she joins us?”

“Not at all.”

Moments later the tightest game of three-ball Clint had ever played was underway. The new comer was deadly accurate, but dipped slightly in efficiency. Clint’s flaw was over ambition, trying to get too many balls to go in in one shot. Nat had the accuracy and the efficiency, but dipped in patience.

In the end, Clint won by one point.

“Damn,” Foggy commented. The woman had fallen asleep some time ago.

“Nice playing a worthy adversary, uh…”

“Barton,” Clint supplied.

“Murdoch.” They shook hands.

The woman muttered something in her sleep and Foggy patted her shoulder gently.

“We should be getting back,” Murdoch said. “Get these two to bed.”

“Well maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” Clint replied.

Murdoch nodded then rounded up his crew and went outside to hail a cab.

“When are you and Matt gonna quit pretending you don’t know each other?” Natasha asked, leaning against the pool table next to him.

Clint shrugged. He leaned in to kiss her, enjoying the smile on her face. “You certainly can play a guy at pool, dear.”

She grinned back. “You still owe me for my gun.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only seen seasons 1 & 2 of Daredevil so he was the only Defender I felt I could write with any semblance of accuracy. I'd love to see some of the others in action, though. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	24. December 24: Love & Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No PDA? No problem.

While neither is prone to acts of affection in public, they each have their own realm of fondness when they are alone.

Natasha is physically affectionate. She’ll touch Clint’s arms and shoulders, tease him with little kisses to his neck and back and chest, offer sweet full kisses to his mouth. She’ll run her hands through his hair while he lays his head on her lap as they watch TV. She’ll brush her knuckles along his cheek before kissing him or just because she wants to.

He’s real and there and hers and she likes to remind herself of that. She can touch him. There’s no order that needs to be given. If she wants to use her hands for love instead of violence, she can.

Clint’s verbally affectionate. He’ll call her cute pet names, list all the things that he finds beautiful about her, and tell her how much she means to him. When she kisses his hands and wrists he’ll encourage her, signing to her how much he likes it. He’ll confess his love to her, for her, over and over again because it makes her smile.

She’s there and his and he likes to remind himself of that. She deals in lies and he wants her to hear the truth as much as she can, even if it’s only from him.

While outside they might be deadly assassins, when it’s just the two of them, they’re as sweet as can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!! :)


	25. December 25: Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrate in your own way...

She knew what it was. She’d read about these, seen them on advertisements, had maybe even had one or two herself when she was very young. But it still perplexed her.

“I promise it’s not a bomb, Nat,” Barton unhelpfully explained. She glared at him in response before tearing into the paper of her Christmas present from him. If the idea of a gift itself was confusing, the actual gift was even more so. “It’s a calendar.”

He grinned. “An obscure holiday calendar. I figured since you’d missed so many holidays, why not make up for them with little, unknown ones. National Cookie Day, Hug a Tree Day, International Hello Day-”

“-You don’t actually expect me to celebrate all of these, do you?” She flipped through the ridiculous calendar.

“Well no. But I thought since neither of us really do the major holidays, if you ever got in a celebrating mood, you might as well have something to celebrate.” He shrugged, looking a little unsure of himself. It wasn’t often that she saw him like this, bravado drained and open. She scolded the part of herself that liked that she got to seem him this way.

“Thanks,” she forced. Because it was nice of him to think of her and give her a gift, even if it was mostly due to societal pressure for gift giving this time of year.

She hung up the calendar anyway.

…

On January 5th she woke up and poured herself a cup of coffee, sipping it gingerly in her SHIELD quarters while reading a book on loan from Commander Hill. Across from her hung the calendar, the only decoration in her quarters. She wasn’t sure what made her look at it, but when she read the day’s stupid holiday, instantly she began planning her revenge for the dreadful thing.

 

“I got you something,” she said, dropping a tiny wrapped box into Clint’s lap where he sat in the canteen. Coulson, sitting across from Barton, looked concerned while he sipped his coffee.

“What’s this for?” Clint asked opening it. He frowned deeper upon seeing the little mirror and bell she’d wrapped up.

“I can’t believe you, Barton. How could you possibly forget National Bird Day?” She started to cry but he could tell she was faking it. “Here I gave you such a thoughtful gift. Google said your kind liked such things.”

Coulson sat there, quietly amused, sipping his coffee.

“Can the tears, Widow. I get it. Ha ha, very funny.” He picked up the bell, grinning at the annoying sound. “How long do you think I could do this before Pierce noticed?”

Coulson snatched it from his hands, muttering, “Children.”

…

In February she dedicated every Friday to finding as many of his little “nests” around base and dropping off bags of birdseed. Each one had a handmade card greeting him with a glittery: Happy National Wild Bird-Feeding Month.

He didn’t say anything about them. But it didn’t escape her notice that he came to their briefing with sunflower seeds in his pocket.

…

For Homes for Birds Week she signed him up for as many different real estate circulars as she could.

The pile of mail in front of his door when he came back from a two month long solo mission was almost as tall as he was.

…

The joke comes back to haunt her in March when Clint gifts her with a terrarium containing a tarantula.

“It’s Save a Spider Day, Tash.” Then, “His name is Col. Furry.”

But truly the joke is on him.

She loves Col. Furry.

…

Missions come and go. Small holidays are celebrated. Cookie Day and Hug a Tree and Hello Day get marked off of her calendar.

By the time December rolls around she’s been cleared as an Agent of SHIELD – Coulson gift wrapped her badge.

Clint gave her another calendar, claiming it’s their tradition now, and an incredibly small eye patch for Col. Furry. She gives him a new knife to replace the one she stole from him in Prague and a bag of dog treats for the stay he feeds and thinks no one knows about.

It’s nice, this holiday tradition, but she thinks she likes the little ones more. They’re… private. Inside jokes met with grins and jabs. So she hangs up the calendar behind Col. Furry’s tank and begins planning for next year.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading these little fics!!! Merry Christmas to those celebrating, and Happy Holidays to all! :) 
> 
> Until next time,   
> \- Z-socks


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